


you're like a gun, or a knife (be my wife)

by hunted



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (get it), Adult Content, Alcohol, Anger, Begging, Bodily Fluids, Canon Compliant, Creampie, Drunk Sex, Episode: S05E04 Colours, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Floor Sex, French Kissing, Hate Sex, Infertility, Kissing, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Riding, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Sex, morse hurts my heart, porn with sadness instead of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: He hated her. He loved her.......Title taken fromLove Song by IDLES.
Relationships: Claudine/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	you're like a gun, or a knife (be my wife)

Claudine was so beautiful.

She was framed by a rectangle of chaos, the window behind her alive with electricity and rain; blue and black and flashes of brilliant white. Her hair was tousled and brown, wavy by her forehead, exploding into a mess of curls by her jaw. How magnificent she was, how cruel. A force of nature to rival the tempest outside. She was silhouetted by ferocious strikes of lightning, and he considered it a fitting comparison.

Her eyes were steady and cold as she rode him, pink lips parted, panted breaths slipping free. He held her, distant but eager for it, hungry for the time she deigned to give him. One of his hands was against her soft waist, wrist bumping the rise of her hip as she swayed her body. She took his other hand, moved it to her naked breast. He squeezed her there, throat thick with emotion, words he didn’t dare manifest.

He knew she wouldn’t care.

“You feel good,” she whispered, “You feel so good, inside.”

He nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening in a brief, pained smile. If she saw the loneliness in him, she chose to ignore it. He supposed that this was all they’d ever agreed to. She didn’t owe him love. He dragged the pad of his thumb over her hardened nipple, and her breath hitched in enjoyment. He was leaned against the foot of her bed, trapped in place, the world beyond this room disappearing from reality. Nothing existed but their fleshy chaos, the push and pull of two quivering nude bodies.

“Morse,” she sighed, tilting her head back, chin arching towards the ceiling, “Morse…”

He inhaled sharply, lashes dipping down low. Heat churned inside him, roiling and potent and uncontrollable. He hated her. He loved her. She felt so fucking good, so tight and warm and slick around him.

They had it right in a sense, all those poems and films, the dramatic depictions of female delicacy. But he was starting to think that there was more to womankind than just that. In Claudine’s cruelty he saw the ghost of Susan’s poisonous smile, and he recognised a familiarity which scared him. He didn’t understand how gentleness and loveliness could coexist with limitless cruelty, couldn’t fathom how someone so beautiful could hurt him so permanently. He was frightened by the particular empowerment certain women had to hurt men like him; men who were quick to love, quick to adore, quick to worship. He didn’t know what she was doing to him, but alcohol had made him numb and warm, his cock sheathed by her tightness. He couldn’t escape her. He couldn’t walk away.

He knew that she would. It was only a question of how long it took.

She slapped both hands on his shoulders, rode him hard. Her nails dug into his skin, and he winced at the sting of it. But he didn’t ask her to stop.

He reached around her, both arms grasping her form, palms against her spine. Their lips slotted together, open mouths brushing and gasping, noses bumping as she moved. Her legs were spread, knees folded on either side of his thighs, his bare legs extended out against the floor. He felt trapped, stuck here, however willingly he’d come to be so. He was drugged by her. Hopeless with it.

“Christ,” she groaned, “Christ, Morse.”

“Don’t think he’s here,” Morse grunted.

She chuckled, and in her breathy laugh he sensed her recognition of his plight, her understanding of what he meant. This wasn’t healthy. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t a romance worthy of any biblical blessing. This was just sex. She knew how much this hurt him, but she didn’t care.

He considered, as he licked into her mouth, that perhaps she even enjoyed his pain. She got off on it.

They kissed. He moaned into her, tasting her ecstasy, hips twitching upward into her heat. She dictated the pace and tempo of their violent lovemaking, but he so passionately wished he could flip them over and fuck her on her back. Maybe that would make him feel stronger. More in control. But, no, that wouldn’t help, and he knew it. So he let her ruin him, submitted to it, let her use him like the willing concubine he’d become.

“Are you close,” she gasped, and it didn’t seem like a question.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice trembling, “Yes.”

“Ask me,” she instructed, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, biting down, “Ask me.”

He hated her. He hated her so, so much. But he loved this. He loved the feeling of her body, the grip of her cunt, the flesh which clenched around him and made his head spark with frenzied colours. Maybe he got off on the humiliation, too. Being commanded, being subjugated by a beautiful woman.

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, “Let me come.”

She smiled, still biting her lip, eyes closed.

“No.”

“Please,” he breathed, “Claudine,”

“Again. Ask me again.”

He dragged his blunt nails down her back, hoping he was leaving marks, praying there would be something to force her to remember this night. He let out a low grumble of frustrated desperation, face dropping down, forehead against her sweat-slick shoulder. She ran her hands through his hair, breasts touching against his chest, full and round.

“Please. Please.”

“Poor Morse,” she whispered, “Poor little Morse.”

Tears rose to his eyes, unbidden and humiliating. He grit his jaw, and she moved faster, skin slapping now.

“Come,” she told him, “Come for me, come inside me. Come. Come.”

He huffed out a strangled breath, hugging her close, crushing her body against him. He thrust upward inside her, fast and desperate, chasing whatever dregs of control she had left him. She cried out, high-pitched but not helpless, her wailing as masturbatory as the sex was. She liked hearing herself, and his enjoyment of her was only a side benefit. He fucked her as hard as he could while sitting on the floor, every exhalation strained and scratchy, punching free from his mouth like a bullet.

"Ah, ah, ah!"

"Claudine, Claudine, fuck-"

"Inside me, inside," she moaned, "Inside, Morse...!"

His hips stuttered to a standstill. He pushed into her once, twice, and then a final time. He spilled inside her cunt, crying out against her neck, clinging to her so tightly that his arms ached.

***

She smoked. He breathed it in. They didn't talk.

Then, she went to sleep.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. She lay next to him, curled up on her side, quietly snoring. Claudine had confided in him early on, said that she suffered from a particular condition. She'd discovered her infertility when trying to conceive with her ex-fiancé, who had abandoned her when they failed to create a child. Since then, penetration without protection had become a fetish, a way of reclaiming trauma. She liked being filled, liked the sensation of a man's seed dripping free after the fact. No longer was she aspiring to be a mother when she accepted a lover's fluid inside her body; she was doing it for naught but her own enjoyment. Morse supposed that he supported any woman who dared to have such specific sexual desires in an age of female oppression. But he was also bitter. He knew that he was just a tool. Just a way for her to experience pleasure. A toy.

He was damp from all they'd done. His inner thighs were sticky, his limp cock slick with their combined fluids, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. He needed a shower. Needed to wash this all away.

The storm outside was settling.

He looked over at Claudine. In her sleep, she was even more beautiful. How carefree she looked. How perfect. She made him think of angels.

He leaned over, rolling somewhat onto his side, and kissed her gently on the cheek. She didn't move, and for a moment he hovered, as though he might say something. It seemed like he should have _something_ to say. He was filled with words, choking on them, suffocated by all of the things she made him feel.

He tucked a strand of curled hair behind her ear. She didn't stir, and he silently supposed that he couldn't blame her for the way she felt. Or, didn't feel. They had never promised each other love. It wasn't her fault that Susan had abandoned him, that Joan didn't see him as anything more than a friend, that he had fallen for a pretty photographer with a brilliant smile.

He tried to conjure something. Anything.

No words came.

He rolled away from her and slid free from her bed.


End file.
